


sink your fangs into me

by ithyca



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angela "Mercy" Zielger (Mentioned), Angst, Gunshot Wounds, Jesse McCree (Mentioned), M/M, Reaper76 - Freeform, Suicide, kind of a heavy ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 05:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10564974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ithyca/pseuds/ithyca
Summary: he thought there was still hope. he couldn't have been more wrong.





	

**Author's Note:**

> ok so this got really heavy and depressing really fast??????????? idk man i was channeling the angst tonight  
> this is actually a gift for a friend!!!! what an awesome present right  
> winks @ riley
> 
> translation for the spanish at the end is "i'll see you in hell" but it was pulled of a translator so if its wrong pls let me know and ill fix it !
> 
> warnings for some implied sexual content (rly rly vague, like so vague most of u will probably be like ?? sex? where?) suicide, death, etc.
> 
> remember babs ur safety is important so if these topics have the potential to trigger u make sure u go elsewhere ok?? smooches u all !

Sometimes Jack struggles to remember the days before the disaster at the Swiss Headquarters, the way things used to be. Days when Gabriel wasn’t nagging at the back of his mind, a constant threat, a manipulator and a mastermind that knew them inside-out (new and old). He doesn’t bother to keep his concerns secret, the perpetual crease in his brow enough cause for worry. Angela looks at him differently, eyes full of pity. It’s unsettling. He seethes at the mere thought, at the idea of him, the Golden Boy, Strike Commander Morrison, pitiable. He knows, he isn’t the sun anymore, he’s not Overwatch’s center, he is no longer pivotal and invincible and invaluable. Still, he wanders with a stone cold expression and an even colder mind, steeled by methodic power, though his heart heaves with the burden it must carry.

 

He’s not what he used to be; he’ll never be that again. He’d give anything to be that again (it’s not possible, he knows --- but it’s not for lack of trying). 

 

The threat Talon dangles dangerously close to them only serves to remind Jack of his shortcomings. They’ve always been there. Even back before Overwatch had disbanded, before the Petras Act, before the second Omnic Crisis. His weaknesses are hindrances with too loud voices and too large mouths, all too prepared to announce themselves to his friends, his family, his peers, the people he’s come to care for too much. Too much (always too much).

 

His lips are chapped, cracking and red from where his teeth worry at them beneath the lock and key of his visor. Nosy Jesse McCree and even the archer, the elder Shimada, question the cool metal’s permanent presence on his face. He tells them it’s the scars (but really, who is he kidding?). Hanzo prods no further, bright enough to take the hint, reminded of his brother (taken apart by his own hand, humanity replaced by cold, cold metal). Jesse is not quite as quick. He insists. He’s always been persistent. Maybe that’s why Gabriel always liked him so much, why he took him under his wing, fathered him. 

 

He won’t tell them it’s because of the ever-present doubt that’s settled deep in the wrinkles of his face, the misplaced fear crawling through the blue depths of his eyes.

 

***

 

There’s something poetic in the way Gabriel returns, shrouded in shadows and taken by mist, tendrils of the stuff curling about the floor he stamps down upon. He’s no less monster than man, a certain swagger about him as his cloak waves around him like soulless wings. His mask begs to be removed, begs to unleash the horrors beneath it, nightmares of a man not killed enough, of an attempted rescue gone rogue. He was never meant to be saved (devil, devil, devil!).

 

He doesn’t waste moments reminiscing in the old, dusty halls of the Watchpoint, fading from disuse, set on the path he’s chosen for himself. His half-heart pounds loudly in his chest, screaming its protests as if it has any shred of say in the matter. Gabriel (no, Reaper, grim and dark and a menace, a murderer) had never belonged to anyone. Not before, not now, and he certainly didn’t plan to in the future. His fangs are sunken in his lower lip as he trudges forward, shotguns burning callously in his vices. He goes undetected (he always does, a phantom, a mere apparition, just a shadow of Blackwatch), remembers how he used to spend late nights in these corridors with golden Jack Morrison at his side, discussing battle plans and semantics and running headlong into a career that ended them far before they were ready to go. He remembers the distractions, hushed moans and rough kisses pressed against cold plated walls, remembers loving him, and suddenly the ache between his ribs refuses to part from him. If he cared, he might choke, but he’d never been the sentimental type.

 

He finds Jack where he expects him to be. Lurking pathetically close to the past, clinging to it like it’s his last hope, his last chance for survival, watching the sleepy lull of the ocean waves against the pink and orange horizon. If it were back then, he may have jested, may have suggested it was romantic and kissed him like they were just normal boys with normal lives.

Jack turns to him, expression unreadable behind the protection of his mask (that damn visor always makes things so fucking difficult, so fucking impossible. Why, why, why?).

 

Gabriel’s lip curls into an equally hidden snarl, lifting the barrel of a single gun. He’d come here to put an old dog down, after all, claws wrapped bruisingly tight around the weapon, yet he finds it becoming increasingly more difficult, the way Jack continues to blankly stare him down, full of baseless pride and bullet holes (vendettas never did look good on you, sunshine).

 

He stalks closer, firearm pressed to Jack’s chest, disappointed (angry, even) at the feeble grunt of a response it earns. Like pulling teeth (so that’s how it’s going to be?).

 

“Morrison.”

 

“Reyes.”

 

Their voices are as monotonous and indecipherable as the hidden looks on their worn faces, innocuous and asinine. If either was searching for poignancy, they fail miserably, mouths sealed in firm lines and hearts held steadily silent. It’s the last of Jack’s voice he hears before he’s shoving his gun into his hands and pressing his own finite chest to the barrel. He sees his brows raise and wagers he’s looking surprised, but he can’t find it in himself to push further. Instead,

 

“ _ Te veo en el infernio _ .”

           And he pulls the trigger.


End file.
